Losing your youthful beauty can be traumatic. But here, in a very personal testimony, cancer survivor Koo Stark reveals: Why I'm grateful to be grey

There are times in life when you just have to bear humiliation with a sense of humour - and the day I stepped out of a swimming pool wearing my new bathing suit with a built-in false bra was one of them.

Five years ago, my daughter and I had been invited to join one of her school friends and her mum for a break at their villa in the South of France.

The villa had a pool and my daughter, who was just starting to be body-conscious, was keenly aware that, unlike most mums, I don't have a bosom.

This is because, ten years ago, when I had breast cancer and a mastectomy, I decided on the healthier choice - to have no further surgery, reconstructive or otherwise.

Cancer survivor Koo Stark is now growing old not only gracefully but supremely gratefully

So, not wanting to draw attention to
myself for my daughter's sake, off I trotted to Rigby & Peller,
corsetiere to Her Majesty, to buy a decorous one-piece with artfully
constructed prosthetic breasts.

I
felt pleased with my elegant, new costume as I sunned myself poolside
that day. The trouble came when I ventured into the water.

I don't think anyone had tested the costume while swimming, because my new breasts got progressively soggier and heavier.

Share this article

They
were like sponges and the weight of the water made them slip and sag
alarmingly. As a result, by the time I was ready to emerge from the
pool, they had drooped down to my navel.

My poor daughter was hugely embarrassed. Her little friend was mesmerised. And me? Well, I was screeching with laughter.

'Studies have suggested some hair dyes, especially dark ones, may contain carcinogens. Frankly, I am not prepared to take the risk'

'Excuse me while I squeeze out my bosoms,' I said, wringing out the prosthetics until they bounced back to their rightful place on my chest again.

A little while later, I explained to my daughter's friend about the cancer. But she was unperturbed. Her mummy, she explained, had opted to have silicone implants to enhance her perfectly healthy breasts. So, her daughter was used to seeing breasts come and go.

I do not, of course, judge those women who decide to have cosmetic surgery to fight the ravages of ageing. Nor would I criticise any woman who, after breast cancer, elects to have reconstructive surgery. However, I have resolved to remain unencumbered by implants.

Always opting for the healthy choice, I have also refused - repeatedly and despite the blandishments of my wonderful, long-suffering hairdresser, Neil Ward - to dye my long, grey hair; or, for that matter to use cosmetic artifice to iron out my crow's feet or lift my drooping jowls.

This is why you find me, aged 56, growing old, not only gracefully, but supremely gratefully. The fact is, I'm glad to be alive and I do not want to imperil my health by having unnecessary surgery for the sake of vanity.

A similar line of thinking informs my decision not to dye my hair.

Studies have suggested some hair dyes, especially dark ones, may contain carcinogens. Frankly, I am not prepared to take the risk.

Aside from the fact that I intend to live to a robust and happy old age for my own sake, I do not want my daughter to be motherless.

She is 15 and I am raising her alone. I feel it would be utterly selfish not to do my best to be around to pilot her into adulthood and beyond.

If breasts and hair dye guaranteed health, wealth, happiness or a flourishing love life, I might be tempted, but my experience and common sense tell me they don't.

Yet it is odd how friends' perceptions have shifted since I recovered from cancer. My daughter - then five - was the first to spot that something was amiss with my breast.

'Mummy, why have you got a grape in your bosom?' she asked, as she gave me a cuddle. (In fact, the tumour was the size of a hen's egg).

'The results were catastrophic: the
chemical dye patch brought my scalp out in an ugly, itchy rash, while
the organic one transformed my locks into a vibrant shade of orange'

After that, there was chemo and surgery, and a collective intake of breath as friends and family waited to see whether I'd pull through. But once I'd survived and emerged as bald as a sumo wrestler and breast-less, the well-meaning pressure began.

'You must dye your hair! Get implants, for God's sake; pull yourself together. Hurry up! You'll never get a man/job with grey hair and scars,' urged my friends, with what felt like one voice.

My hair was developing a disconcerting life of its own. It acquired wayward curls and stuck out as if I'd had a terrible shock - which, in a sense, I suppose I had - and grew back in stripes of white, steel grey, golden brown and auburn. There were even some tufts of blonde.

It looked as if I'd carried out a disastrous experiment with home dye and a perm kit.

Neil, my hairdresser since the Eighties, weighed in. 'Don't worry, darling. We'll just dye your hair brown,' he consoled. 'And if you refuse, you'll have to come in and out of the staff entrance from now on!'

But I wasn't prepared to compromise my health - whatever my hair looked like. One day in a restaurant, a stranger rushed over to me and embraced me.

'I think you look lovely!' she cried, and in that hug was invested a wealth of empathy and experience. I presumed that she, too, had suffered cancer and understood my need for reassurance and kindness. I was so touched and moved by the experience.

But I also realised I had to prepare for a humdinger of a battle with Neil. We had one stand-off in which the whole salon retreated to a far corner while he stood with his hands on his hips and I, a virtual prisoner in the chair, shouted that on no account would I allow him to dye my hair.

'I want to see how it looks when it grows back,' I said.

'Nowadays, I've developed a thick skin. I tend to care very little what other people think of me'

'I'm telling you: it will look awful and it will be an affront to civilised society,' he snapped.

In the end, we settled on a compromise. I agreed he could dye two small patches of hair to test how my scalp would react to a chemical dye and an organic one.

The results were catastrophic: the chemical dye patch brought my scalp out in an ugly, itchy rash, while the organic one transformed my locks into a vibrant shade of orange.

I felt vindicated! And grateful I wouldn't have to endure six-weekly dyeing sessions. I would be out, proud and naturally grey.

I have to admit, too, that age and experience has made me obdurate in the face of criticism. In the Eighties, I was paparazzi fodder because I was dating Prince Andrew.

Nowadays, I've developed a thick skin. I tend to care very little what other people think of me.

In the mornings when I leave our little house in London to take my daughter to school, I do not try to compete with the yummy mummies. I rarely put on make-up, other than a lick of mascara and lipgloss, and possibly a swipe of my daughter's blusher. I just drag a comb through my hair, brush my teeth and pull on jeans and a sweater.

Sometimes, I concede, friends will absolutely insist that I dress up. One of my dearest girl friends recently invited me to a swanky party as her guest.

'But I'm simply not taking you unless you wear some bosoms,' she insisted. She produced one of her bras - a generous 36FF - and proceeded to put it on me and stuff it generously with socks.

My impressive fake bust arrived in the room several seconds before the rest of me did and, mercifully, stayed in place for the whole evening. But it didn't make me any more inclined to opt for permanent implants.

I don't believe that I am more likely to be consigned to a lonely old age because I lack breasts - I just attract braver men; those unencumbered by insecurities or such fragile egos that they need to tout around a trophy wife.

In fact, I would not want a partner who
sought a trophy wife. For, when the looks that once defined you start to
fade - and I've become accustomed to being called 'the former beauty,
Koo Stark' - then you can compensate by keeping your sense of humour.

Nothing is as dreary as a self-obsessed
woman who spends half her day and a good proportion of her cash in the
beauty salon. My advice is: if you develop your character, or what we
Americans call 'personality', age is no bar to romance.

Koo eats a diet of mostly alkaline foods, the benefits of which include improved energy and vigour, sharper mental acuity and less of a tendency to bloat. Victoria Beckham and Kirsten Dunst are also fans.

For love is not the prerogative of the young. My mother married her final husband happily and successfully in her 60s.

My stepfather adored her; he was completely besotted and she responded with girlish delight. So I wear my scars, lines, wrinkles and grey hair comfortably. Because I lost my hair to chemotherapy, I am absurdly delighted to have it back in any form. I faced the reality of death, so I am grateful for the body and life that I have.

I know I have a few lines on my face, which chart the joys and sorrows I've lived through. However, when I examine myself in the magnifying mirror, I am happy that my face stares back - full of life and excitement for the future.

To dye for

Millions of women tint their hair at home and the market for hair dye is worth £175 million in Britain alone

But if anyone doesn't feel as comfortable as me, then I have a simple solution. Like most of us in our mid-50s, I have declining eyesight. I count it as a blessing because the fuzzy outline that greets me when I look in the mirror is so indistinct - not unlike an Impressionist painting - it appears to be bereft of flaws.

I do not notice the odd stray whisker, the blemishes, the lack of elasticity that heralds old age. So I do not feel the compulsion to rush off and obliterate them. Instead, my beauty regime is a simple and inexpensive one.

It's a cliché, but I start from within, by eating a diet of mostly alkaline foods, the benefits of which include improved energy and vigour, sharper mental acuity and less of a tendency to bloat.

Victoria Beckham disclosed that she is following the same regime and other celebrity adherents include Kirsten Dunst, Jennifer Aniston and Gwyneth Paltrow.

I practise yoga, too, and often joke that I've been doing so since I was in my mother's womb. (All through her pregnancy it kept her supple). It improves my flexibility, promotes an upright bearing and makes me look youthful; nothing, after all, is more ageing than a slumped posture.

Meditation is the daily practice that calms my mind.

I also love sunshine, clear skies and vigorous walks in Richmond Park with my daughter's poodle, Dolly. When faced with the choice, I'd far rather be walking the dog in crisp winter air than frittering away valuable hours of my life, not to mention money I can ill afford, at the hairdresser's.

Besides, I'd sooner spend cash on my daughter, or the dog, both of whom have ruinously costly grooming regimes and appreciate the pampering far more than I do.

So, I don't worry about growing old. I have other far more important things to concern me - such as getting on with my life.

After all, ageing is natural, inevitable and a positive blessing. And I'd choose it any day over the alternative.